


Fractals

by midmorning_bomb



Series: Little glimpse [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek Hale, Hallucinations, Light Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:55:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26066104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midmorning_bomb/pseuds/midmorning_bomb
Summary: “This isn’t real.”Peter’s voice is shaky and uncertain, he’s not even sure if he said the words or just thought them, the room is spinning so hard. He feels like he’s burning again, spiraling. When he tries to focus on the person in front of him, all he sees are fractals.
Relationships: Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Series: Little glimpse [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1892233
Comments: 12
Kudos: 259





	Fractals

“This isn’t real.”

Peter’s voice is shaky and uncertain, he’s not even sure if he said the words or just thought them, the room is spinning so hard. He feels like he’s burning again, spiraling. When he tries to focus on the person in front of him, all he sees are fractals. The room starts to shatter apart, little crystals of light shifting, bursts of colour behind his eyelids before it goes black.

Waking again is like breaking through the surface of a frozen lake. He feels it in his throat and his lungs as he gasps for breath and searches for... Stiles! Oh god, he was trying to save Stiles and he failed. Again, always, always always fails, always wrong, never fits…

“Jesus, no, Peter. Don’t cry, fuck, I’m okay! We’re okay! You—” The voice fades and Peter thinks he must fade away with it.

He feels like he’s floating in the film between awake and not. Two shadows beside him, above him, surrounding this oddly warm cocoon.

“—ek, we still need to give it more ti—”

“—ouldn’t he be—tter by now?”

“Could take—poison—vering.”

It’s so easy to sink back down. 

When he wakes this time, Peter truly wakes. His mouth feels tacky and disgusting, his head is pounding, and when he turns to search for the glass of water he keeps at his bedside, he sees his hand is in Stiles’ iron grip, the man passed out in a chair pulled up to the bed. Stiles' hair is messy, dark circles under his eyes making him look almost severe. When they met, Stiles had been a cute kid, but the years have made him beautiful.

Peter immediately pulls away, from the man and the thoughts, which is enough to jerk Stiles out of his slumber.

“Peter! Peter, oh my _god_ , I was beginning to think the antidote I made didn’t work. Shit, we needed moonseed and I swear the batch Deaton had was from the _dark ages_ , and then you weren’t waking up and I _told Derek_ it would take more time, but he started doing the thing where he frowns with his mouth _and_ his eyebrows...”

Stiles is still rambling, something about green chiretta? And Peter can barely wrap his head around what’s happening. Why anyone is worried. Why anyone is _here_.

“Fuck, of course we’re here, Peter. I’ll always be here.”

This is too much, too much vulnerability and he’s still so tired. He tells Stiles he needs a moment to collect himself and get cleaned up. Aims for a smirk, but misses by a mile if he judges from the heartbreak on Stiles’ face.

“Dude, for sure. I’ll start some pancakes. Derek is probably ready to start gnawing on the kitchen counter.”

The sound of affront from the other room lets Peter know his nephew is still there as well, and he starts to feel utterly unacceptable pinpricks at the edge of his eyes. He blinks them away and blindly grabs a sweater and pair of jeans from his closet.

He tries not to think about how comforting the soft murmurs coming from the kitchen are, as he stands under the stream of too-hot water. He leans back against the cool marble of the tile and finds his mind frustratingly blank. His thoughts are still sluggish, from fighting the poison, from days of sleep and little food.

His last clear memory is thinking he wouldn’t reach Stiles before the làbh-allan did. He rolls his eyes, and winces as the pain surges. Of course the Nemeton would attract plague rats.

He dries off slowly and takes a long look in the mirror. He’s worse for wear, but his eyes are bright. He keeps searching his own face, but there are no answers in the reflection. For the first time in a long time, he doesn’t know what he wants. He’s not... happy isn’t the right word, he’s too alone to be happy. He’s not hungry like he’s been before. He wonders if grief has always been burrowed this deep within him, like if he opened up his chest, all he would find is longing. He swallows hard and looks away, gets dressed in the clothes he set out.

When he steps into the living room, he sees Derek seated at the island, laughing at something Stiles said while the other man builds a tower of pancakes.

He freezes, breath hitching, when Stiles’ face lights up at seeing _Peter_.

“Zombiewolf! Come eat at least five pancakes before your Alpha steals them all. I put butterscotch chips in them because your ‘sophisticated palate’ totally had them hidden in the back of the cupboard, don’t front.”

He joins Derek at the island, his nephew running a hand up and down the length of his arm before squeezing the back of his neck.

Peter can feel Derek’s eyes on him as Stiles pushes over a plate piled high with food. They’re both watching him now, care and worry on their faces. They stayed with him. They’re not leaving.

This is real.

**Author's Note:**

> [Fractals](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QpnjpcM611Y).


End file.
